


Zero to Sixty in Three Point Five

by RealityBetterThanFiction



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Brief mentions of Liam and Zayn, Bumble - Freeform, Drunken musings, HellCat - Freeform, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Uber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 16:15:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10251212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RealityBetterThanFiction/pseuds/RealityBetterThanFiction
Summary: Harry bumbles himself out of a bind...and into a boyfriend. It's Niall's fault, of course. As it always is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phdmama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phdmama/gifts).



> When life imitates art.
> 
> Thanks to tvshows_addict who not only encouraged this drunken mess last night but then helped beta it today to make sure Harry was the only one who sounded drunk. 
> 
> For phdmama, whose fic I am beta'ing and it so full of amazing angst I needed to write this ridiculous fluff to counter it. Go check out her works! Now!
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry is drunk. And not only that. He’s lost. And shirtless. In March. In Chicago. Though he can’t quite remember how exactly he got himself into this situation. It probably has something to do with Niall. Most nights that end up like this can be solely blamed on Niall. But unfortunately for Harry, Niall has vanished. And Harry is still without his shirt. 

 

Miraculously (or at least Harry thinks it’s miraculous in his current state) he has enough coherency to realize that there is, in fact, a way out of this situation. With a great deal of effort that nearly sends him sprawling on his ass, he manages to fish out the cell phone from his back pocket. It takes numerous tries to unlock it, partly because Harry cannot remember his password, let alone his own last name, but eventually he gets it unlocked and then forgets entirely why he expended so much precious brain power trying to do it.

 

Naturally when his brain is running on reserve power mode while drowning in alcohol, online dating sounds like a good alternative to whatever it was Harry had been originally planning to do. Harry’s primitive brain always likes looking at pictures of cute boys. 

 

Niall had set him up on that new online dating app, Bumble, as a joke last month. In fact, he’d absconded with Harry’s phone one day and done it without his knowledge, half as a lark to see who he could catfish and half to help Harry “hook a husband,” as he so often put it. Harry wasn’t really sure Bumble was the place to find Mr. Let’s-Get-Married-and-Buy-a-House-in-the-Burbs-with-a-White-Picket-Fence-and-Have-Three-Children-and-Two-Dogs-and-Live-Happily-Ever-After-Until-We-Are-Both-Senile-and-Can-No-Longer-Sustain-Erections. But Niall had been entertained for an afternoon and Harry had never gotten around to deleting the app. This is just the first time he’s using it of his own accord. But now seems as good a time as any. No matter that it has just started to flurry and Harry is still...you know...without a shirt. In winter. Alone on a street corner. In Chicago. Details.

 

Through his bleary vision, he clicks on the app. The first picture that pops up is of some model looking motherfucker with dark hair and caramel eyes who looks to have a shit ton of tattoos. All his pictures look like professional head shots. Harry spends a solid two minutes looking at them (for science, of course) before he swipes left on this Zayn fellow. 

  
Next up is a bulkier specimen with biceps for days. Every one of his pictures is a mirror selfie at the gym showing his obscenely defined washboard abs. He calls himself Liam. Harry calls him trying too hard. Another left swipe.

 

Lucky bachelor number three is the one who really sends Harry into a tailspin. He’s so beautiful that Harry actually drops his phone, hands unable to hold something that looks so ethereal, even in pixelated form.

 

His name is Louis. He has blue eyes. And his picture is him flipping off the camera.

 

Harry is  _ in love _ .

 

In order to stop himself from french kissing his phone (which now has a brand new crack in the screen thanks to his fumblings over the gorgeous creature that has stopped Harry’s motor functions), Harry swipes right.

 

BAM!

 

They’ve matched.

 

Harry is overcome. He literally does not know how to process the fact that this man, this perfect, otherwordly, demi-god and that naughty little middle finger have taken an interest in a mere mortal like Harry himself.

 

Harry must speak to him. It’s the only logical solution.

 

He clicks on the “ _ Chat with me! _ ” button and begins composing the message to end all messages. The message that is going to steal this man’s heart. The message that they will tell their grandbabies about some day when asked how their devoted grandpappies met. The message that will begin their happily ever after. Or something.

 

In the middle of composing his message, his brain splutters on for a second of clarity and he remembers the actual purpose of why he needed his phone in the first place.

 

Oh yeah. A ride.

 

He could click out of Bumble. Make his way over to the Uber app. Get himself home. But that seems like a lot of steps, and Harry is likely to get side tracked again. There is a much better alternative. Two birds with one stone.

 

Or...two rides in one.

 

Harry deletes what was surely a Byronic declaration of love and soulmate shit and goes with a more simple approach.

 

**I need a ride from downtown. Pick me up?**

 

Simple. Effective.

 

Harry waits.

 

Three little dots pop up shortly indicating that the god damned love of Harry’s drunken life is  _ actually responding _ to him.

 

“Oh God!” Harry hisses. He is not prepared for a response. 

 

**Think you have the wrong app buddy. This isn’t Uber.**

 

“But Uber is too hard!” Harry tells his phone.

 

Before Harry can respond, the three dots are there again. 

 

**Hope you get home safe. Don’t accept rides from strangers. Happy early St. Paddy’s Day. Seems you celebrated it well.**

 

“I did,” Harry says happily. It involved a lot of Guinness. Because Niall is of Irish descent and insisted that even though Harry has no Irish blood in him, everyone is Irish in Chicago on St. Patrick’s Day. Harry can never say “No,” to Niall when beer or Irish-ness are at stake. It’s not a wise decision if one values their life and limb. It might also be why Harry’s not wearing his shirt, although that is still up for debate. Where is Niall, anyway? Maybe he has Harry’s shirt. 

 

A thought occurs to Harry. Another brain fart. Maybe  _ Louis _ knows where Niall is! Everyone knows Niall. Every time they go out to a bar, Niall runs into no less than fourteen acquaintances. As Harry’s soulmate, Louis surely must know Harry’s best friend. 

 

**Hve you seen Niallll???**

 

Louis answers him after a minute.

 

**Considering I am in my bed right now, where I have been for the past three hours...no. I have not seen Niall. Whoever the hell that is.**

 

Harry frowns. Damn-it. 

 

**He got mi shirt. I think. Its cooold. I needs it. My nipples hert.**

 

Louis types back instantly.

 

**Jesus Christ. Please tell me you’re not outside shirtless in winter. I don’t even know you, but no ones nipples deserve that kind of treatment.**

 

Harry smirks.

 

**What knd of treatment wood u give em?**

 

Harry mindlessly rubs a hand over one of them. Shit. That really does hurt. It’s so god-damned cold. He’s shivering so badly he can barely even read Louis’ response when it comes.

 

**Gentle treatment considering the damn things are probably like icicles right now. They’d break right off if I so much as breathed on them.**

 

Harry likes that idea. Louis breathing on his nipples. Louis doing anything to his nipples.

 

**Ive got 4 of dem. Theyre here ready and waiting for dat gentle treatment. ;)**

 

Louis replies in seconds.

 

**Shit. Now I’m invested in this. If only for the sake of your nipples. If you and your four little nubs die of hypothermia out there on the streets, the guilt will haunt me forever.**

 

Harry hums happily to himself.

 

**Lifes 2 short 4 guilt.**

 

Louis’ reply only confirms to Harry that they are meant to be. For life.

 

**I’m more afraid that your life will be cut too short if I don’t step in. Where are you?**

 

Harry looks around, holds the phone out to show it, hoping Louis will see. He does not. Instead he types out another message to Harry.

 

**Listen. Tell me where you are. I’ll come.**

 

Well...that sounds  _ fantastic _ .

 

**Me too.**

 

Louis shuts it down. Harry tries to pretend he isn’t broken hearted.

 

**I’m not giving you that kind of ride.**

 

Harry wiggles his eyebrows as he types his reply.

 

**Yet. ;))))**

 

It’s probably not a good idea to send the eggplant emoji and the peach emoji. Harry does it anyway.

 

Louis sends the rolling eyes emoji and then tacks on…

 

**Oh my god. Just give me the address. Or the cross streets. Hell, even just give me a fucking landmark.**

 

Harry squints. He absolutely cannot read the street sign. It’s too far away, and Harry’s not sure he trusts his legs to carry him closer for a proper look.

 

But he does see statues nearby. Really ugly ones. 

 

**Legs. Lotz of legs. No heads. No bodies. Hey! I’m leg-less, and the statues are body-less. We’re a pair!**

 

No matter how drunk Harry is, puns are always available. Harry tries to think of more puns having to do with legs (should he text Louis that he has a third leg and ask if Louis would like to see it?). Harry looks at the statues again and realizes sadly all of them only have two legs. No man parts. Harry hates the creepy penis-less leg statues. He doesn’t want to look at them anymore. He cups his own junk in commiseration. Hopefully Louis will come quickly.

 

**Ah! I know where you are! Stay there. Don’t move. And for christ’s sake, don’t die.**

 

Harry shrugs. That seems easy enough. He plops down on the pavement at the corner, turned away from the legs and does as Louis asks. 

 

But a thought occurs to him.

 

**Hey. Louis. What kind of car do you have?**

 

Harry wants to know. It’s an important detail. Harry’s kind of a car guy. He likes a nice car. Ideally his soulmate has a Ferrari or something. He’ll even settle for a Benz or a Jag. And will take Harry out for a spin on some winding country road. Or fuck him over the hood of it. Either is fine with him.

 

Louis takes a while to answer. Like...ten minutes. Or maybe two? Harry isn’t sure. Time isn’t really something in his realm of comprehension right now. He wonders if Louis’ forgotten about him. He hopes not. Louis was nice. He was very nice and very pretty and Harry’s soulmate. And he cares about the wellbeing of Harry’s nipples. Harry will never forget him. He knows this to be true, even through the heavy fog of inebriation.

 

Finally…

 

**Fuck. You’re even cuter in real life, if that’s possible. Hi there, dimples.**

 

Harry swings his head around. It makes him dizzy. He very nearly upends himself on the pavement. His sense of gravity is even more in danger when he sees the man a few feet away, leaning against a car.

 

And by car, Harry means,  _ car™ _ .

 

It’s a stunning Hellcat. Harry would recognize the lines of Dodge’s famed muscle car anywhere, in any state of mental cognition. It’s a fiery cherry red, gleaming under the street lights like it’s on a show room floor. Harry wants to lick the car. Almost as much as he wants to lick its owner. Who also belongs up on stage under bright lights, considering he himself could outshine even the brightest stars.

 

Harry gets poetic when he’s drunk. It’s a thing that happens. He also gets horny. And that damn hood looks like a perfect seat for Harry’s bum. Or Louis’. Harry’s not particular. They can share that, really.

 

“Your Uber has arrived,” Louis calls out, sweeping his hand out regally like he’s a footman for Cinderella’s magic pumpkin. This certainly feels like a fucking fairy tale to Harry. Albeit an adult one. With alcohol. And hopefully epic life altering sex. Harry clambers to his feet, pulled forward by the intriguing flick of Louis’ wrist. And his eyes. God. Harry can see they are  _ blue blue blue _ . Even from here. 

 

Up close, they are even worse. Harry is 5000% more drunk now than he was seconds ago across the street.

 

“I didn’t call an Uber,” Harry tells him, tripping over the words like he tripped over his feet getting here.

 

Louis shakes his head and laughs. It’s like a Disney melody. “No. You called me.”

 

“Glad I did.”

 

Louis looks him up and down. Harry preens.

 

“Maybe I am too.”

 

Louis reaches into the open window of his car and pulls out a sweatshirt. He hands it over to Harry. Harry dons it quickly and snuggles his face into the neckline. It smells like the rest of his life.

 

They don’t go on any winding roads. They don’t fuck over the hood of Louis’ sexy car. Louis just drives him home. Even helps him to his door like a true fairy tale white knight. And then takes off. Harry is so drained from the night that he crashes into his bed, too tired to even half hearted wank in celebration of a good night with a hot guy coming to his rescue in his sex-on-wheels car. 

 

In the morning, he wakes up with a nasty hangover. But he also has a notification from Bumble that he’s received a message.

 

He opens the app, still wearing the borrowed sweatshirt from last night and his socks. Pants had come off, though. A necessity. In fact, he hazily remembers trying unsuccessfully to take them off in Louis’ car before he even got home.

 

The first message is from Louis. It’s a string of digits. A cell number.

 

Under it is written…

 

**In case of late night transportation emergencies...or maybe just dinner.**

 

Harry saves the number, closes out of Bumble. Then deletes the app entirely. He’s got a feeling he won’t need it anymore.

 

He texts Louis. 

 

Three days later, they go out on their first date.

 

Three months later, Harry gets fucked over the hood of a Hellcat.

 

Three years later, that picket fence house in the suburbs is a thing.

  
Harry never needs Uber again either.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there is a real installation of statues of body-less legs in Chicago. And yes, they are a bit creepy. Sorry! (If interested, look up Agora).
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at RealityBetterThanFiction.
> 
> xoxo
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
